A/N: I was going to go into January 2015, and how their friendship turned to romance, but like Alan Rickman as Colonel Brandon in Sense & Sensibility says, "…No. I must go further back." Flashbacks will continue for the foreseeable future. I don't own it, but I suspect Downton owns me.
March 2010
"You're a million miles away," he commented. He wondered if she'd heard anything he'd said in the last five minutes. Then again, Pedro's was jammed for the start of March Madness. William brushed by them as they sat at the bar.
"Have a good weekend, Mr. Carson, Mrs. Hughes," he said, holding four bottles of beer in his hand as he went to join his group. Charles hardly noticed. He touched her arm softly.
"Are you all right?" She turned, smiled at him.
"I'm fine, Mr. Carson," she said over the loud voices around them. "It's been a long week, that's all." She finished her white wine spritzer and stepped off of the barstool. "I'm sorry, but I'm getting a headache in here. I'd better go home. Have a nice weekend."
He said goodbye, sure she hadn't heard him in the din. He sat at the bar for another half an hour. The basketball games were a mindless blur. The crowd around roared and groaned, but he paid little attention. He wondered if something was bothering her. But if so, why not tell him? They told each other everything.
Everything?
She does not know you heard her the day you had surgery. When she told you she wasn't leaving you, and you found a reason to live again.
He had dreamed of that moment, thought about it, damn well obsessed over it at times for the last three years. Sometimes he thought he had dreamt it, that he did not remember anything clearly from that day. Surely it was his imagination.
Sometimes he thought the way she spoke to him bordered on something more, but he told himself it was nothing unusual. He had a reputation to maintain, and he certainly did not want to risk hers. He was professional, courteous, and as dignified as ever. They had patched up their friendship, after that horrid time when he thought she'd go to Haxby. The last thing he wanted to do was disturb the peace.
The following week began as normal. The office busy, attorneys and staff pretending to work when he knew very well half of them were streaming games online. In the past, he would have cracked down, but regardless of what others thought, he had softened over the years. It was late in the afternoon on Wednesday when he walked to the kitchen from his office that he saw Mrs. Hughes and the new Mrs. Mason (formerly Patmore) emerging from Beryl's office. The records clerks supervisor had her arm around the office manager, and was trying to comfort her.
Mrs. Hughes was crying. The last time he had seen her cry was at Sybil's funeral.
He went into the storage room to avoid running into them. His mind raced. What on earth was going on? He wanted to ask her later, but she avoided him. She politely declined to join him at Pedro's the next Friday, saying she was going to visit Becky. By this point, every alarm in his brain was going off.
She came into his office on the following Monday, and said she would not be at work the next day. She had an appointment.
"May I ask what this appointment is for?" he asked, folding his hands on his desk, his heart beating terribly.
"You may ask, but I do not have to answer," she said steadily. He said nothing for a moment, studying her. She was calm. She rarely lost her temper or her composure, so that was not unusual. But her face was white, devoid of color. There were shadows under her eyes. She held her hands at her sides, her thumbnails digging into her palms.
She was afraid. She was never afraid.
"I hope it goes well." He wanted so badly to make her tell him what was wrong. But he could not force her. Why don't you let me help you? You don't always have to be strong.
"Thank you, Mr. Carson," she murmured. Before she left the room, he stood up.
"I want you to know that I'm on your side," he said. She looked back at him with an expression like when they'd toasted to friendship, fifteen years before.
"Thank you for that." She hurried out, but not before he saw the tears coming again. That did it.
At 4:30, he marched down to Beryl's office, knocked, entered, and closed the door behind him. She barely looked up from her computer.
"This had better be important. I'm busy. Even for you."
"What's wrong with Mrs. Hughes?" he blurted out. She took off her glasses, tapped them on her desk.
"Nothing to worry you about," she said finally. He leaned forward over her desk.
"I know something is wrong with her. She has an appointment tomorrow. What is it?" She pursed her lips together.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson, but if she has not told you, then by law, I cannot. I assume you remember HIPAA?"
He wanted to scream. The health law forbade medical institutions, doctors and professionals from sharing private information about their clients. If Mrs. Hughes did not tell him herself what was going on, under the law, he had no right to know. After all, he was not family.
But Mrs. Patmore-Mrs. Mason, he corrected himself, had told him something. Unintentionally.
"She's not well," he said, sinking into a chair. Beryl said nothing, staring at her screen. "She's ill." Every medical ailment known to him streamed through his brain. Her heart. No, she ate a healthy diet and was in good shape. Don't think about her shape right now. Tendonitis? No. That might require physical therapy or in a worst case scenario surgery, but she would not weep over it. Her lungs? She'd quit smoking over ten years ago.
"She's not ill," Beryl said. "At least, she doesn't know yet. The biopsy is tomorrow, the cyst in her breast might be benign." Her face crumpled in worry.
Cyst? Benign? "So it might be malignant?" he whispered, his heart plunging into the floor. His hands shook. God, no. NO. Please spare her. I'll do anything…
"Malignant? Who said anything about cancer?" she asked loudly, scowling at him. The word hit him like a ton of bricks.
"You did, Mrs. Mason," he said softly. Her face turned white, then red. She covered her face with her hands.
"Don't tell her I told you," she said, her voice muffled. She sucked in a breath and put her glasses back on. "She did not want you to be told."
"Why?"
"She has her reasons." Beryl looked as though she did not agree with them, whatever they were.
"When will she get the results?" Please don't let her have to wait too long.
"They'll tell her when she should expect the results after the biopsy." She looked at him with pity. "I'll tell you when I know anything, Mr. Carson. But don't tell her you know, or that I told you."
"Of course not," he said. He walked back to his office in a daze.
When Mrs. Hughes returned to the office two days later, he took it upon himself to watch her. She was the same as ever, if a bit preoccupied. He caught her on the stairs carrying a box.
"You shouldn't do that," he said, reaching for it. She sidestepped his reach.
"Why ever not? It's my job," she said briskly, continuing up the stairs. "I was downstairs already, Alfred called and needed more binders for his trial prep."
"Why didn't you have one of the clerks bring it up?" he blustered. "There's no reason for you to tire yourself out-"
She stopped, glaring at him with such intense ferocity he felt himself wilting on the spot. For once, she was taller, standing a few steps above him. "Who have you been speaking to?"
"No one," he said, defensive. He started to sweat.
"Good," she snapped. He watched her walk the rest of the way up. He then went downstairs into the file room and chewed out the staff for not helping her. By the end of his tirade, Molesley, Denker and Spratt were ashen and Mr. Barrow was certain they would all be fired.
Beryl emailed that it would be a wait for up to ten days before Elsie would know. If it was malignant, the doctor would call and have her come in for an appointment. If it was benign, the phone call would suffice.
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The last thing she wanted was to tell him. He would overreact, and worry. She did not want to give him that burden.
"I don't want him to see me as a sick woman," she said to Beryl the day she was told there was a cyst, and that she would need a biopsy. "Or a dying one, if it comes to that." She bit back a sob, but the tears kept falling.
"You will have to tell him if-" Beryl swallowed. She took Elsie's hands in her own. They were as cold as ice. "He'll have to be told."
"Until then, don't say anything. To anyone. I mean it."
Her friend promised, even though Elsie could tell she disapproved of her silence. No one else at the office said anything to her. She tried to act the same, especially around Mr. Carson, but she knew he was suspicious. She regretted not going to Pedro's the Friday before her biopsy. It would have been nice to have one last drink together before everything fell apart. But she could not face him. She knew he would ask after her, and she was afraid she would not be able to resist telling him.
She had to stay strong, for his sake.
The day after her biopsy he confronted her on the stairs. At first, she was livid. After giving the binders to Alfred, she went straight to Beryl's office and demanded an explanation.
"You must have said something. You said he asked after me!"
"Of course he asked after you, he's a good man." Beryl squirmed in her seat. "He's not totally daft, you know. He could have guessed something was up."
Elsie snorted, leaning back in the chair. "He's a hopeless liar, whatever he's thinking. The man went dead white when he said he hadn't spoken to anyone."
"That's quite nice, isn't it?" Beryl asked. "Especially for an attorney. Most of them are liars or bend the truth, one way or the other."
"I hope Mr. Carson never has to testify at a trial," Elsie said. "He'd crumble after the first question in the cross-examination."
The rest of the week was a blur. Again, she skipped the weekly drink at Pedro's, making it the first time they had skipped it two weeks straight. She was sitting at her desk the following Monday when the phone rang. It was an outside call.
"This is Elsie Hughes, at Carson, Crawley & Bates."
"Elsie? This is Dr. Sherman." Time slowed to a stop. She kept her eyes on her keyboard, the letters and numbers blurring.
"Yes?"
"I'm happy to tell you that the results of your biopsy came back negative."
She put her hand over her mouth. A gasping breath escaped anyway. She struggled to control herself and looked out the window. For the first time, she noticed the pear trees blooming outside, their blossoms white.
"Is there anything else I need to do?" she asked shakily. Coherent thoughts were impossible, except for one. I do not have cancer. I am going to live. I am going to live. Thank you, God.
"Not at this time. We'll schedule a check-up in six months. If you notice any other lumps, of course, please call us right away."
"Of course. Thank you, doctor. Thank you," she whispered.
"You're welcome. Have a good day, Elsie."
She called Beryl, who arrived at her office so fast she might as well have been listening outside the door. They both cried, hugging each other.
"Thank God," Beryl wiped her red face, her eyes still streaming. "I knew you'd be all right, though."
"Oh, did you?" Elsie laughed through her own tears. "Well, I'm glad someone did." I am going to live. She almost felt giddy. The last time she had felt such incredible relief was when she knew Mr. Carson would be all right after his surgery. "Mr. Carson would want to know."
"Do you want me to tell him now?" Beryl asked. "He's been terribly worried about you, Thomas said he almost tore the heads off the staff last week, told them not to let you overwork yourself."
Elsie felt a rush of affection for him. I hope he wasn't too harsh with them. He probably was. "Go and tell him, if you don't mind."
"Put him out of his misery, more like." Beryl left. Elsie opened her office door, relishing the sight of everyone in their everyday routine. For a Monday, it was suddenly a wonderful day. She sat back down at her desk and concentrated on her work. It was a lot easier than ten minutes before. I am going to live.
She was pondering a complicated email from Cora regarding destroyed files when her attention was caught by a strange sound. She got up and went to the doorway of Mr. Carson's office. He was not seated at his desk; rather, he was looking out the window, his back to her. He sang under his breath.
"I see trees of green, red roses too.
I see them bloom for me and you.
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world…"
Well. That answered a question in the depths of her heart. He must care something for her. She had never heard him sing before, not at the Christmas party or any other gathering. Oh, I'm glad you are relieved as I am.
He hummed as he swayed slowly back and forth, lost in his song, a smile playing on his lips.
"I see friends shaking hands, saying how do you do
They're really saying I love you…"
She crept back to her office, her heart full. She had realized her own feelings several years ago.
Now she knew he felt the same. The hard part would be getting him to say it to her face.
She could be patient, no matter how hard it was, because now she knew.
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It didn't seem enough to simply go on as before. Surely there was something more he could do to show he cared. He got the idea after overhearing Miss Baxter talking on the phone to one of her friends. After a quick Internet search, he made his decision. Carson, Crawley & Bates had been known for their charity work. The firm always sponsored a family in need around Christmas, and participated in various community projects throughout the year.
This would be the first year the firm would sponsor a team in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. It seemed everyone knew someone affected by breast cancer. William and Thomas's mothers, Miss Baxter's university roommate, Tom Branson's aunt. One of Anna's favorite teachers had succumbed the year before.
On a Saturday morning that June, Charles got dressed at home before heading into the city for the race. He knew most of the staff did not expect him to come, thinking his financial contribution would be sufficient. Also, he knew the talk in the office was that he would not come because of the dress code. None of them had ever seen him wear anything more casual than a pair of khakis and a collared shirt. And that had been while playing golf.
He wore a suit, but left his jacket in the car.
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The hired photographer took all sorts of pictures; mostly candids, but a few posed shots. Elsie's favorite was the one of Tom, William, Alfred, Matthew, Jimmy and Thomas proudly wearing their t-shirts inscribed with the pink slogan: "SAVE THE TATAS". Anna brought her some lemonade, which she was enjoying when Mr. Carson arrived.
He greeted Robert, who slapped him on the back.
"You're about to walk for miles outside, in the summer heat, and you wear a suit? Only you, Carson!"
A dazzling smile spread across Elsie's face at the sight of him as he talked to Robert. He wore sneakers, but that was his only concession to the elements. Grey striped pants and a white dress shirt, cuffs rolled up to his elbows. A solid color pink tie.
She never saw the photographer take her picture.
If you ever have the opportunity to participate in a Race for the Cure, do it. This disease affects too many people.